


On the Edge

by TheWorldBookGirl



Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Angst with a Happy Ending, But I still think Nat/Steve makes more sense than how Brucetasha happened, F/M, Guilt, I started writing this before I shipped Stucky, M/M, Romance, don't expect regular updates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 13:14:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6117550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWorldBookGirl/pseuds/TheWorldBookGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three steps into the lobby, and her shields were starting to crumble. The whispers strangled her, entangling themselves around her like a straightjacket.</p><p>“Is that? – this summer – Romanoff – saw her in Sydney, before – Did you hear – ankle – prima – her partner – no, the knee – new one? – her fault.”<br/> ***<br/>Mistakes have been made, people have been hurt, and it's Natasha's fault. It's all her fault. Of course, that's only how SHE views it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Edge

Brown boots and jeans emerged from a mustard-yellow taxi, leading out a slim redhead in sunglasses, wearing a leather jacket and a dismissive frown. The driver popped the drunk and circled the taxi to hand the redhead her duffel and suitcase, nodding to her as he did so.

The redhead’s lip curled slightly at the sight before her. “Newbies,” she scoffed.

The cab driver nearly hit his head on the raised trunk hood. “What was that?”

Natasha lowered her sunglasses. “Nothing,” she dismissed the driver. He nodded again before scurrying around the vehicle and peeling away from the curb. Natasha pushed her sunglasses back up the bridge of her nose and shrugged her duffel bag further up her shoulder.

“Newbies,” she said again, quieter. The disgusted curl had vanished from her lip. Her resolve wavered for just a second before she wrapped the haughty air around herself once again. Shoulders squared, posture impeccable, she sauntered forward, letting all the new dancers who crowded the entrance to the school part before her. No one recognized her at first. A part of her, the part still unaffected by her mistakes, was insulted. The other part of her sighed with relief.

That didn’t last long.

Three steps into the lobby, and her shields were starting to crumble. The whispers strangled her, entangling themselves around her like a straightjacket.

“Is that? – this summer – Romanov – saw her in Sydney, before – Did you hear – ankle – prima – her partner – no, the knee – new one? –  _her fault_.”

By the time she got into the elevator, her whole body was leaden. She sagged against the elevator walls and practically threw herself out the doors when it reached her floor. She rushed down the empty hall to her studio, the words and judgements chasing her. She needed to train. She needed to push her body to its limits, 5o make sure what happened in Budapest would never happen again.

She needed to be  _alone_.

The door stood in front of her. Its window displayed the current occupant vividly, but Natasha, lost in her own thoughts, didn’t notice him until she threw the door open. The music flooded her ears, and the dancer within the room nearly toppled over at her intrusion.

“Shit.”

She didn’t see the other dancer’s eyebrows knit together in worry or hear him calling after her, because she was already halfway to the elevator, speed-walking away from the music, out to the sanctuary of the streets and eventually home to solitude.

 

Still puzzled, the other dancer returned to his exercises, moving with all the strength and grace in the world.

 

“Ladies,” the instructor’s voice rang sharply in the room. “I’d like to introduce you to Ms. Romanov, one of our academy’s finest.” The dance instructor eyed the girls like a hawk, making it clear they were not to so much as sneeze. “She will be working with you periodically throughout the year, teaching you to be the best you can be.” She gave the girls one more harsh glare before nodding at Natasha and leaving the studio, her entire body stiff as a board. When the door closed after her with a final click, Natasha turned back to the pink-clad girls, each of whom stood stick-straight in a line. When she looked them in the eyes, she could tell they knew.. They knew and they were wondering.

Natasha tried for a smile, something that would put herself at ease as much as it would the girls. She didn’t know how successful she was. “Hello, girls.”

They replied in perfect unison.

Before we begin, I want to make one thing clear.” She came to rest at the end of the line, looking down at each girl. They stood perfectly still, staring straight ahead. One girl twitched, her eyes briefly flickering in Natasha’s direction before fixating on the wall again.

“I am not here to make you better, nor am I here to _teach_  you how to be better. Being good is not something that is taught - it is something that is earned through hard work and persistence. As long as you understand that, it is possible for you to be the best. Any questions?”

No response came, though a couple of eyes flickered her way. She could feel that cone question pulsing through their veins, aching to be released from curious mouths. That one damned question. The one she would never answer.

The room stayed silent, and Natasha steeled her voice. “Let’s get started.”

Natasha made a point to arrive at the studio promptly at the time she had booked it for. That way she wouldn’t have to kick anyone out who tried to snag it after whoever had booked it before her left. So when she arrived on Tuesday at precisely two o’clock and there was already another dancer in the room, she was caught off guard. She checked the sign-in sheet. No one had signed in since noon, so he must be....  _Does that say Steven Rogens? Ro- Rog- Rogers? Steve Rogers?_  Natasha signed in and pushed the door open, ready to tell off the other dancer when she saw who he was, and immediately stilled.

_Oh God_. She couldn’t be here. God, anywhere but here. She’d change her usual time or start booking another studio. She was about to turn and get away before he saw her, but of course, he  _had_  to catch sight of her. He stopped in the middle of his routine - their eyes were locked in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors as the music swelled around them.  _At least_ , Natasha thought,  _I’m not as much of a wreck this time._

Natasha stood frozen, like a deer caught in headlights, until the other dancer moved to turn off the music, and the two stood in a sudden silence. She avoided looking him in those impossibly blue eyes. “Sorry,” she muttered, setting her bag down by the wall. “I booked the studio for two.”

He shook his head and held up his hands in a gesture of compliance. Natasha scowled a little and busied herself with unpacking her bag. “Hey, no worries. I lost track of time. I’m Steve, by the way.”

Natasha looked up at him. The man was undeniably attractive – better-looking and more toned than most male dancers. “Natasha,” she replied curtly.

“Right, yeah, you were on tour this summer, right?”

She didn’t reply.

“Right. Okay. Well, I’ll just...head out then.” He gathered his things and left, the door clicking closed almost silently behind him.

Natasha abandoned her bag, taking a single disk out of her pocket. She toed off her shoes and socks, popping the CD out of its case. God, she wanted to hit something. She wanted to scream and pound the walls and curse herself and Steve and everyone and everything. Instead, she put the CD in the player and slipped on her dance shoes as the music flooded the room and filled all her senses.

This was good. She knew this. She knew the pulse and swell of the music and the controlled rhythm of her body. She didn’t have to think when she did this, so she let the music lead her limbs in her warmups.

Really, Natasha didn’t understand the academy’s purple standardized leotards and skirts. Literally every other academy and company used pink or black or both. It was so much more professional and flattering. The girls in front of her were going through a routine they were to preform at the recital in a few weeks. It was only the third week, and already Natasha could predict the future of each girl. Cassie would drop out by the end of the year, decide ballet wasn’t for her, unless she got kicked out. She’d likely only gotten in through her father’s connections. Torrin had potential, but she, like most of the other girls, wouldn’t make it to be a prima ballerina. Kate would make it through, undoubtedly. She was serious and focused, but good-natured. She and Rogue both. Clint would like Kate, Natasha thought. Maybe one day if Clint visited, he could—

The bell rang, a shock in the midst of the peaceful notes twining around the girls’ limbs and torsos. Cassie nearly fell over.

“Good job today. Remember to practice if you want to land the solo.” Natasha began picking up her equipment as the girls filed out.

“Natasha.”

_That_  voice was never good news. Natasha had never particularly liked the school’s assistant headmistress, even when they were students together. Not that  _Madame Hill_  was a bad person – she’d just always rubbed Natasha the wrong way. Natasha turned to face the brunette, an absolutely false smile tearing apart her face.

“Mar _ia_! How  _are_  you?”

Maria gave her a quick hug before stepping back, holding Natasha at arm’s length. “Oh, Nat, it’s been forever. I was so sorry to hear about Clint. But listen, I’ve got some good news.”

“Oh, really?”

Maria dropped her arms and gave Natasha a look that said  _stop it_. Natasha mentally berated herself for her unmonitored sarcastic tone, but seriously, Maria was nowhere near sorry about Clint, and most of the “good news” she heard these days was more like bad news barely disguised as decent news.

“Sorry,” Natasha sighed. “I could probably go for some good news now.”

“Right. Well, Director Fury found this guy...”

“Good for him. Didn’t think he swung that way, but I’m glad he found someone in his old age–”

“Nat,” Maria huffed, “the guy is for  _you_. A new partner. He’s a dancer from Brooklyn, one of the best–”

Natasha turned away to pick up and fiddle with her bag to hide her face in case her mask had slipped.. “Sorry, Marie, but I’m not–”

“Natasha.  _Stop it_.” When Natasha continued to the door, Maria grabbed her arm and spun her so they were face-to-face. “You need a partner. I know it, Furiosa knows it, and you know it. You have to stop being so stubborn, and  _lord_ , you need to stop blaming yourself. You’re not just the best dancer here, Nat, you’re one of the best in the  _world_. If you don’t get a new partner who’s on you level of performance  _soon_ , you’re going to lose all potential partners and your career  _will_  be over.”

Natasha jerked her arm free, glaring daggers, and hiked her bag up on her shoulder. “I’ll think about it.”

“Nat–”

“I said I’ll  _think about it_.” With that, she left, ignoring the girls who’d obviously been eavesdropping. The strap of her duffel dug into the flesh between her forefinger and thumb, anchoring and concentrating all her emotion to that single point in her body.  _I’ll see Clint. I’ll talk to him. He’ll know what I should do._

Steam curled from the mug Natasha cradled in her hands. She tried to relax, lean into the couch, let her tucked legs loosen, allow her face to smile, but all she felt was a cold stone of dread sitting in her gut, dragging everything inside her down and putting her on edge. She’d gone to Clint’s apartment as soon as she could, moving on autopilot, but as soon as she had found herself standing at his door, she’d felt like bolting. She’d barely put her fist up to knock on the door when it had swung inwards. At the threshold stood Clint, clearly ready to go somewhere. Natasha tried to look him in the eye, tried to say something, but her throat clenched up and the her eyes were drawn to the black brace at his ankle that seemed to be glaring at her accusatorially. Clint had stepped aside and gestured for Natasha to come in. He dumped the coat he’d been putting on onto a chair and hobbled to the kitchen, each uneven step making Natasha flinch internally. Minutes later, he’d returned with two steaming cups of coffee and sat down, gesturing for Natasha to do the same.

They had been sitting there for a while now, Clint’s blue eyes watching her, waiting for her to say something, and Natasha staring uncomfortably down at her coffee, letting the heat from the mug sear the skin on her hands.

“You haven’t visited.”

Natasha’s head jerked up just as Clint took a sip of his coffee, maintaining eye contact with her.

“I...I’m sorry,” she said softly, putting her still-full mug down on the table. “I wanted to, but I–”

Clint heaved a frustrated sigh and stood up, sweeping his hands over his face and tousling his blonde hair as he circled around his chair, coming to a rest behind it with his hands on its back. “ _God damn it_ , Natasha!” Natasha flinched and pulled her legs in tighter beneath her, bringing her knees closer to her chest. “It’s been  _two months_. I don’t know what kind of inferiority complex you have that’s making you think that all this–” he gestured at his bound ankle “–is your fault, but you have to get past it.”

“But it is,” she said quietly, half hoping he wouldn’t hear her. He did.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” he retorted, eyebrow cocked.

“It’s my fault.”

“I still can’t hear you.”

Natasha shot up like a rocket. “IT’S MY OWN GODDAMNED FAULT, CLINT, OKAY?” She lowered her voice, but somehow still felt like she was screaming. “ _I_  screwed up and now  _you’re_  hurt, and  _you’re_  out of a job and you’re never going to get back in the game because  _I. Screwed. UP!_ ”

She stood there, exposed and shaking. It was only after she felt Clint’s arms wrap around her, pulling her into his chest, that she realized she was crying, and once she noticed, it only got worse. She clenched her hands, balling up the fabric of Clint’s red flannel shirt in her fists. tears began streaming down her face and she was sobbing, barely breathing in the scent of Clint’s musk.  _God_ , she thought, _he still doesn’t shower enough_.

“Nat,” Clint said once her sobbing died down. His hand reached up to stroke her hair. “It’s okay. I’m okay, and you’re okay. I’m working on finding a job, and I’ll get one. Once my ankle heals, I’ll go teach or something. Maybe I’ll do choreography and put that degree of mine to some use. Yeah, I’d like to be able to dance like I used to, but I won’t, and that’s just the way life is now.” She lifted her chin from his shoulder then and he loosened his grip on her, holding her at arm’s length, studying her undoubtedly puffy red eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. “It’s not your fault, okay? These things happen. They suck – they really,  _really_  suck – but they happen.”

Natasha nodded. She sometimes hated how Clint was able to bring out the best in her, make her change her mind about things she’d been so certain about only moments before, make her feel so  _right_. They’d never had any sort of romance in their relationship. Maybe things could have been different in their past. Maybe at some point she would regret how they’d help set one another up on dates, but at the moment she was infinitely gratuitous for their friendship. Until Clint, she’d never had anyone she’d trusted with her entire being, and she was now glad that it was  _him_  she’d chosen to trust even more than herself. “Yeah, okay.”

A smile graced Clint’s face, that impish glint returning to his eyes. “Good. Now, did you just come to to pour out your heart, or was there something else you needed?” He winked suggestively, earning him a swat at the head from Natasha. “Hey!”

Natasha felt a grin pulling at the corners of her lips. “Actually, birdbrain, I came for some advice.”

“Oh, really? Please, do make yourself comfortable in my office,” he gestured at the stained red sofa and torn purple chair they’d been sitting at minutes earlier. Natasha’s mug still sat completely full, on the coffee table. She resumed her previous position on the couch, as did Clint on his chair, and took a sip of her now-too-cool coffee. “Now,” Clint said, “what issue will I be providing dubious advice about today?”

“Well,” began Natasha, “Maria came to see me today after the class I teach at SHIELD Academy with news from the director.”

Clint leaned back in his chair with faux pensiveness. “Ah, yes,” he sighed, “Monsieur Furiosa. I remember him from my childhood days at the Academy. That one-eyed warrior. Scared the hell out of us.”

Natasha cocked an eyebrow. “You never went there. It was a girl’s academy at the time.”

“True, but the place I trained was only a few blocks away, and all the guys would come to hit on the girls after practice until Fury would chase us away. There was this one girl, Bobbi Moorse. Never heard from her after I tried to kiss her at graduation...” He shrugged.

Natasha rolled her eyes. She could imagine a teenage Clint with his shit-eating grin flirting at inappropriate times with the ballerinas. It wasn’t like that had changed at all in his adulthood.

“So, the news was...?”

Natasha sobered at the reminder of her current dilemma. “Right.” She took another sip of her now miserably cold coffee. “Apparently Fury’s found someone – a new partner for me. He probably wants to get me back on the stage before I lose my reputation, and –”

Clint cut her off with a look. “So you came here hoping I would tell you what you’re supposed to do.” It wasn’t a question.

“No, I –”

“You came to me because you feel guilty that you’ll be moving on with your career without me, and because you don’t want to meet this new guy but you still want to fight to get to the top. Natasha, if you  _want_  to do this, you  _should_. Don’t let your frankly unfounded guilt get the best of you.” Natasha could see the sincerity swimming in his eyes. “I want you to be happy, Natasha, and dancing makes you happy. I’ve seen your face so many times on stage and there’s nothing that makes you light up more than dancing.”

“I don’t even know the guy, Clint. I’ve never met him and I don’t know if I can trust him. I don’t know if I can ever trust anyone more than I trust you.”

“You didn’t know me before Fury paired us up, did you?”

“No, but –”

“And you had no idea you’d be able to trust me with...everything, before we met did you?”

“No.” She saw where he was going, but she still wasn’t ready to do this.

“Natasha – Nat, I think this is the cheesiest thing I’ve ever said, but damn it, follow your heart.”

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote this for someone on Tumblr (I can't figure out who they were!): Steve/Nat "you always use the training room before me but it's MY TURN NOW DAMN IT" AU. That quickly turned into a ballet AU.
> 
> I also don't know jack about ballet, so I'd really love some constructive criticism in that area. Just drop me a note, and even just explain some basics of ballet even if I haven't mentioned that stuff yet. Let me know some basic moves and all. :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Feel free to drop by my blog and give me some prompts!  
> marvel-x.tumblr.com


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